Through the Looking Glass
by chezzababyx
Summary: A young girl, stifled by the rules and regulations of the City, takes an inadvertent trip beyond the looking glass and discovers a side of the world she never dreamt possible.  RATED T for eventual sexual content.
1. THE AWAKENING

For the first time in a long time, I feel awake.

The sluggish haze that has blurred my days together unendingly has lifted now. I run, as fast as my aching legs will carry me, almost thirty storeys above the city that I have called home all my life. On the rooftops, I come alive.

But not for long.

_Breathe the air in deeply_, I tell myself. I repeat it in my head like a mantra; savour the sharp razor of my gasps as the oxygen surges deep within my lungs, cold and pure as it should be, coming in heavy pants now.

_Faster! _I urge, the word reverberating in my suddenly empty head—empty save for that one word. _Faster!_

Footfalls echo behind me, fast as lightning and from somewhere too close for comfort. The same footfalls have been trailing behind mine for almost ten minutes now, since I carelessly ventured out onto the roof of the CEC News Building.

_There's got to be a way out of this hell. _

"**Do not run.**"

My legs and arms pump harder still, eyes desperately scanning the rooftop around me, seeking a way out of here; seeking a path to freedom and safety; seeking an opportunity to stop running, finally, and rest.

Everything hurts.

I hadn't meant to run, but it had been instinctual. As soon as I'd stepped onto the building's roof, they had lifted their guns with a chorus of sickening clicks and demanded that I present my I.D.

I didn't even _have_ I.D. I'd only been visiting my father after school as he'd diligently typed out a story about Mayor Pope's death; only wanted to enjoy the fresh air and view from the roof as I had so many times before.

Why were they there? Why were they following me now?

_Jump. _

_It's the only way. _

The rooftop of the neighbouring building seems too impossibly far but by the time I begin to doubt my decision, it is too late. My limbs act of their own accord, pushing me faster and harder towards the gap; my heart leaps into my throat just as my feet lose contact with the ground; the city stretches on endlessly before me—unfurls beneath me, a drop more dramatic than any other I have witnessed—in row after row of clean, white buildings.

A grunt escapes me as I land. The edges of my world become blurred and all I can feel is the pain shooting through my ankle and the panic clawing desperately within me, screaming that I have to _**run**_. It takes more strength than I knew I had to push onwards.

_I'm done for; it's over. _

Ahead, a door flies open; it bangs hard against the white concrete behind it, causing me to jump and creating a small stutter in my heartbeat.

_Dead, dead, dead... I'm dead. I'm finished. I'm done for. _

A dark head pops around the corner. Surprise colors the features of this stranger as he takes in the sight before him. Me, a civilian, a girl who appears to be no older than eighteen, running for her life and pursued by six armed police officers. "Follow me," he yells. "In here."

I follow.

The figure leads me through the building; I'm slower than he is, considerably less athletic, and the shooting pain in my ankle has me limping around most corners instead of dodging around them at the breakneck speed he is.

"Up here," he yells over his shoulder. He scales a wall without hesitation and leans over to pull me up. Within seconds, we are curled in an air vent. He holds a finger to my lips and tells me not to move.

"Stay still," he mouths, crawling silently along the vent. He sits at the end for a moment, watching through a window, and waits to see if we were followed.

"It's your lucky day," he tells me.

_You have no idea. _

He reaches out his hand to me once more. It is firm, large and warm; reassuring as it envelops my tiny, pale ankle. "I'm Drake," he tells me, his voice warm and comforting as he pushes my jeans up to survey the damage.

"Cera," I tell him weakly, swallowing.

"Damn, you _are_ lucky," he tells me, eyes widening. He gestures with his free hand towards my ankle. "This should be broken."

"It's not?"

"Nah," he murmurs, shaking his head. "We'll get you fixed up in no time."


	2. HIDE

Drake waits with me for a half an hour, one eye peeping warily through a pin-prick hole in the vent's cool metal floor. Between my panting breaths and nervous whimpers, I keep insisting that he should leave me. _Run_, I insist. To find and capture one of us would be an unspeakable tragedy; to find both is... inconcievable. My mind reels, remembering the steady and assured manner with which they lifted their guns and took aim.

"If we're found here, it's the end," I tell him. There won't be anywhere else to run; nowhere left to hide.

Drake quiets me with gently whispered, soft explanations. "The wires are still going _off_ after the show you put on," he tells me. "We'll be safe here. Stay still. Stay quiet. Trust me."

"Go!"

"Can't leave you _here_."

I am still and as close to silent as I can be for every millisecond of that half hour. Every movement reinforces the pain I feel in my ankle, causing it to begin anew. The pain: crystal clear, high definition; the edges of my vision are tainted red. Blood? I wonder. It is like a blow to the head that leaves you reeling, unsure of where you are, or who you are; clueless as to anything but the shockwaves overriding your every other thought.

Drake's hands are cold and calloused, his clothing worn and torn in strange patches.

_Runner_, chronicles the tiny voice in my head. I run my observations against the mental checklist I've retained from years of riding City elevators, eyes glued to the slowly scrolling essays slashed in vivid white against brightly colored backdrops.

Runners are the enemies of the City. They ferry classified information to individuals with records of violence, recklessness, and political unrest; they'll endanger the lives of anyone and everyone for the right fee. The girl I was tells me that this man - Drake - cannot be trusted. The girl I know I'll become, however, would know that anyone who'd risk life and limb for another in this City or any other is worthy of trust.

"Keep me safe, Drake," I whisper, reaching out. I pull his hand closer to me, rest it in my lap, and clutch it tightly. "Please, keep me safe."

The faintest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Drake's lips. "Haven't you heard? No one's safe - no one's safe anymore."

* * *

"Welcome to the Intensive Care Unit. It also moonlights as the Maternity Ward, but - " the strange middle-aged man hovering over me with a miniscule flashlight that could pass as medical equipment looks me over, assessing and categorising me with a single glance. His sentence trails off. "Well, I can tell a girl like you won't be coming here under _those _circumstances."

"Merc, this is Cera." Drake lifts a crisp apple to his lips and takes a ferocious bite. "Cera, et cetera."

"Pleased to meet you," Merc tells me gaily. The lightness of his tone isn't evident in his eyes. He is not pleased that I'm here; not in the least. "How old are you, Cera?"

"Seventeen."

"Young. You'll heal quick. Your bones are strong. If only Faith had been so lucky."

"She back in training?"

Merc nods, throwing his flashlight onto a metal guerney. The clanging noises it makes echo loudly throughout the empty water tank. "Tommorrow morning."

I slither from the table and take ginger steps across the mustard colored rug that covers the floor. Merc's lair is as far removed from the glaringly bright, sterile visage of the city. It is dark and dank, and smells of damp. Expensive computer equipment hums at a nearby table, providing the only light in the room. Drake is backlit with a bluish tinge; it reminds me of something my father would say.

_You look angelic,_ he'd tell me. Sometimes, he would show me contraband images of angels that he'd stolen from the Banned Literature archives hidden deep within the labryinth of the News building. Angels were beautiful, and kind, and good, and spared the lives of people who needed saving.

I spoke without thought. Perhaps it was related to the tiny blue pills Merc had foisted on me, with promises that they would make the pain go away. "You're angels," I say meekly. "Both of you."

Merc's thin lips spread in a tight smile. He runs his hands along the bald, shimmering sphere of his head. "That's a word I haven't heard in a while," he says as an aside, lifting a finger to point at a nearby couch. It iss stained brown and oddly misshappen, but in my diminished state it seems like the most perfect of locales. "You're welcome to stay," Merc tells me, with a meaningful glance at Drake.

I limp to the East corner of the room, where the chair - it reminds me of a slug, I think, though I've never really seen one in real life - was. As I slump into it, Angel Drake turns to Angel Merc and tells him:

"You won't regret this decision, Merc. Out ran them all, and she's never be trained. She'll be fast as lightning."

"She's just a kid," Merc murmurs softly.

I close my eyes.


End file.
